


Anti-Social

by Lindentreeisle (Captainblue)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captainblue/pseuds/Lindentreeisle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ASBOs Sherlock got on his own, and one he got with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anti-Social

**Author's Note:**

> While I would love to discuss the many instances of juvenile delinquency on Sherlock's record, ASBOs were not created until 1998 by the Blair government and would not have been in use when Sherlock was a boy. Therefore, in the interests of accuracy I have restricted the story to Sherlock's misspent young-adulthood.

“This is absurd,” Sherlock said sulkily. “I don't see why I should be penalized simply for experimentation.”

“You endangered people's _lives_. There could have been poison gas, an explosion-” PC Hutchins had been listening to the protestations of this young man- boy, really- for almost an hour now.

“I am hardly some _chav_ heating flu remedies in his council estate. I'm in my fourth year reading chemistry at Oxford,” Sherlock sneered. PC Hutchins gritted his teeth and wondered if this young toff had ever actually _known_ anyone working-class. “I have been trained, I can handle those chemicals completely safely.”

Hutchins felt he had displayed enviable patience to this point, but at that he could not longer restrain his anger. “There is no safe way to _cook meth_.”

The gangly boy just glowered and muttered something about “dullards” which Hutchins elected to ignore. “Right,” he said. “I'm drafting this ASBO myself. You'd best stick to your coursework, son, because if I catch you with your fingers anywhere near ephedrine or pseudoephedrine in future, I'll charge you with manufacturing and you'll be sent down from uni so fast it will make your _head_ spin.”

-*-

“Look, you're young. You've never had your own flat before, have you?” the aging sergeant said kindly to the tall, angular man who had answered the door. “Maybe you just don't understand how it is.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Sherlock said, dangling his bow from one hand. “The philistines in the flat below have no appreciation of Mendelssohn, and have engaged the constabulary to harass me as a result.”

“I like a good concerto myself,” the sergeant said, still trying to be sympathetic. “But it's hard for anyone to appreciate Mendelssohn at 3:30 in the morning.”

“Not my problem,” Sherlock said, and made to shut the door.

The sergeant adeptly blocked it with his foot. “I'm obliged to tell you that if you can't see reason, I'll have to go right back down and encourage your neighbors to apply for an Anti-Social Behavior Order.”

Sherlock merely shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. “Don't let me detain you then.” The sergeant withdrew his foot and the door slammed shut.

As he walked slowly back down the stairs, he heard the violin music start up again.

-*-

“Go away, Mycroft.”

Sherlock was lying on his side facing the wall, wearing jeans and nothing else. Mycroft could count every one of his ribs and see his shoulder muscles twitching and jumping beneath his parchment-pale skin. The older man stepped fully into the cell, but did not move to approach any further.

“You should know,” he said in a perfectly even voice, “That I had to inform Mummy when it became clear you were missing. She was most upset.”

“It's not my fault if you can't mind your own business,” Sherlock muttered. “I can take care of myself.”

Mycroft raised the tip of his umbrella midway to eye level and studied it with some intensity. “The fact that you were found half-naked in a London alleyway suggests that you are not doing a particularly good job.”

“Bugger off.”

“I'm sending you to the clinic again,” Mycroft said. There was the hint of a laugh from the figure on the bed. “And I'm having an ASBO issued.”

Definitely a laugh, that time. “The nanny state to the rescue,” Sherlock said. “Go away. There must be affairs on the world stage in which you need to meddle.”

“Always,” Mycroft said. Having finished what he came to say, he turned to leave. “But one always begins by getting one's own house in order.”

-*-

“This has to stop, Holmes,” Lestrade snapped. “You can't just waltz into my crime scenes.”

Sherlock slouched in the chair with his hands in his coat pockets and absurdly long legs hidden halfway under Lestrade's desk. “I found your killer.”

“And obliterated half the evidence!” It was an effort not to scream and throw things, but he knew it would just make Sherlock laugh. And then Lestrade would murder him. “Are you _trying_ to put murderers back on the street? Or is it just that important to you to show off how clever you are?”

No response. Breathing heavily, Lestrade pulled a form from his top drawer and slapped it down on the desk, then picked up a pen. “What's your date of birth?”

“An _ASBO_?” Sherlock's voice was heavy with disdain. “Really, Lestrade, like I haven't had half a dozen of-”

Lestrade aimed the pen at Sherlock. “Shut up! I have asked you and asked you, and it hasn't done a bit of good because you are a selfish prat who won't listen to anyone. But you _will_ listen to this. You will not set foot on a single crime scene unless I specifically _call_ and _ask_ you. If you _once_ walk in without permission, I will never let you on another scene, and I will make sure no other detective does either.”

“You won't stop me helping,” Sherlock scoffed. “It's not in your nature.”

Lestrade glared. “Look me in the eye and tell me I'm lying.”

Sherlock studied him intently for a moment and dropped his gaze back to the floor.

-*-

“Let's see. Last week, you called Cecil Barker from a pay-as-you-go mobile and pretended to be the water company.” Lestrade glared at Sherlock. He was on homicide and yet he got stuck ironing it out, because somehow he'd become Sherlock's minder. “Then you used the information he gave you to scam his bank into sending you his account records.”

“It was for a case, Lestrade.”

The police detective massaged his temples. Christ, Sherlock's willful ignorance gave him a headache. “As it was when you called the Godfrieds this morning and told them their daughter had been kidnapped and sold into prostitution.”

“Naturally.”

“The Godfrieds were very upset, Sherlock.” It was like talking to a child, except a child had enough sense to understand he was in trouble, even if he didn't understand why.

“The husband wasn't, that's how I knew that he was aware of the daughter's true parentage all along. It completely disproved his alibi.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. “I fail to see the problem.”

“That's why you're getting another ASBO,” Lestrade said firmly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, Sherlock, I mean it. No more nuisance calls. No more pay-as-you-go mobiles. Use your own damn phone so people at least have a chance to know what they're getting into when you call.”

Lestrade wrote out the ASBO application, but he didn't have a great deal of faith that it would help. After all, Sherlock Holmes seemed to collect Anti-Social Behavior Orders like some men collected sexual conquests.

-*-

 **Plus One...**

Lestrade fully intended to storm into the station with an air of righteous fury, but in the end the best he could manage was weary resignation. He found them in one of the interview rooms: Sherlock lounging and smirking despite the rip in his shirt and the streaks of grime up the back of his jacket, and John well-mussed but even calmer than usual. “Are you two trying to drive me spare?” Lestrade demanded. “I can't leave you alone near a crime scene for five minutes, is that it?”

“Don't blow it out of proportion, Greg,” John said.

“Hysterics are beneath you,” Sherlock agreed, rubbing at a mark on his wrist.

Lestrade rounded on Sherlock. “For God's sake, Sherlock, _you_ may not care about your record but at least try to think of John! This is the _second_ ASBO you've gotten him.”

“There's your small-mindedness showing itself again. Always assuming that _I_ am the responsible party.”

“Sherlock's right,” John agreed, smiling indulgently and tipping his head back so that a particularly livid bruise showed through his open collar. “It was mostly my fault this time.”

“Mostly.” Lestrade looked from Sherlock, who looked as if he was about to implode from the pressure of suppressed mirth, to John, whose smile was broadening into an extremely disturbing grin. “Do I want to know?”

“Well, I said 'I'm surprised Lestrade didn't notice the stippling around the bullet wound,'” John began amiably, “and Sherlock said, 'Lestrade is so spectacularly blind to the obvious, I doubt he would notice if we were shagging against the side of this building,' so _I_ said-”

Lestrade held up a hand. “Yes, thank you, that answers that question. I definitely do _not_ want to know.”

“In a way,” Sherlock mused. “This is almost _your_ fault, Lestrade.”

“Right,” Lestrade said resolutely. “You two are unbelievable. I ought to charge you both with outraging the public decency, but that would be rather hypocritical of me since you're both outrageous even when you're not shagging in public.”

“I think the technical term is 'dogging,'” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

Lestrade ignored him. “But you're absolutely getting an ASBO, because if I _ever_ have to see anything like that again, it will be far too soon.”

“Oh, don't worry,” John said. “I don't think that's an experiment we'd repeat in any case.”

Sherlock nodded, his face now folding into a frown. “Yes,” he said. “It _is_ a blow to one's ego to be proven wrong about a hypothesis.”


End file.
